


Divertimento

by onepercent



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: A lot of them - Freeform, Age Difference, Crushes, M/M, Pining Enjolras, Semicolon abuse, Violins, e is 18/19, r is 25/26, why did I write this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-03-30 09:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13948605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onepercent/pseuds/onepercent
Summary: Make no mistake, Enjolras does not like his violin tutor. He’s annoying, lazy, and perpetually late, never serious when he should be; unprofessional, disheveled, and insufferably attractive.Well, shit.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> If you asked me why I wrote this I couldn’t tell you. I guess I just love the idea of R playing the violin??? At this point I think I like writing fanfiction about music more than actually practicing. Oh well. You know. 
> 
> Also there is an age gap here and it does affect their relationship. Heed that tag if you need to. Enj is an adult and acts like one a lot but he is a senior in high school for a bit of this so if that makes you feel weird then I get it! 
> 
> All that being said, I hope you enjoy!!
> 
> Ps this is so unrealistic the moment u back-talk ur violin tutor is the day u die as far as i’m concerned. Violin teachers dont play games they are OUT for blood

Grantaire woke up rather abruptly to his phone playing a superbly loud and obnoxious marimba jingle, vibrating so hard it just fucked itself off his bedside table onto the off-white carpet. He groaned and muttered rude exectrations under his breath, yanking his very comfortable and warm duvet covers down as he made a half-hearted attempt to sit up. His phone was still buzzing incessantly somewhere on his messy floor, and he bent down to locate it through sound and touch alone, as he refused to open his eyes unless absolutely necessary. Eventually his left hand collided with the cold metal underneath his bed, and he pulled it out accordingly. It rang once more, and then finally, thankfully, ceased its horrible xylophone riffs. Grantaire was fully prepared to ignore it and go back to sleep where he belonged however early it was, but then he opened up his eyes enough to read the screen.

Enjolras (2) 1m ago  
Missed Call  
slide to call

Shit. Fuck. Dick. Et cetera.

It was Saturday, at 10:39 in the morning, and he should have answered the door for Enjolras fourteen minutes ago. He must have forgotten to set his alarm, and Enjolras was probably standing on his doorstep with that stupid little pissy face of his, ringing the doorbell and calling him (twice) impatiently. They had rescheduled their lesson this week to Saturday morning instead of Sunday afternoon for some reason Grantaire’s tired, hungover brain could not really comprehend this early in the morning. Well, early for him, anyways.

He threw his phone gently onto the unkempt bed, tugged on the first pair of pants he could get his hands on, which happened to be some weathered sweatpants too big around the waist, and ran from his bedroom through the kitchen to the front door. Sure enough, he opened the door, and Enjolras was standing there with his signature bitch-face, his case set down on the porch, leaning against his leg.

“Are you going to let me in?” he said coldly, raising an eyebrow as he passed a judgemental eye on Grantaire’s state of being. Jesus Christ. Despite being the boy’s teacher, Grantaire often felt Enjolras was the one bossing him around, instead of the other way around.

“Yes, sorry,” apologized Grantaire with a cough, opening the door wider for Enjolras to come in. “Go get tuned, warm-up some, and I’ll be there in a few.” Enjolras made in a straight line for the piano room without so much as a nod, and Grantaire walked back to his bedroom to begin his transformation into a presentable, respectable human being.

-

Enjolras was starting to get a little peeved. Sure, Grantaire wasn’t always the most punctual person—he was the stereotypical scatterbrained artist type, constantly showing up to Enjolras’ orchestra performances late enough to have to sneak in through the back. But this was his own house, so was Enjolras really that far-fetched in assuming that he wouldn’t find a way to be late? But alas, he was proven wrong. His phone read 10:39, and his lesson was supposed to start at 10:25. He had rang the doorbell multiple times, and even called Grantaire twice, which he literally never did, ever. Usually if Grantaire was caught up with something when Enjolras showed up, one of his two roommates he rented the house with would let Enjolras in, but no such luck today. He was about to call it quits when there was a loud commotion on the other side of the door, which was therein shortly opened by a very disheveled-looking Grantaire, wearing only a pair of low-hanging sweatpants. Gulp.

 

 

This requires a little bit of explanation.

Enjolras’ parents were very rich and very snobby, and required Enjolras to play either the piano or the violin. His little sister Cosette picked the piano, so he chose the violin when he turned seven. His first teacher had been a middle-aged, sturdy, and unrelenting man, forcing Enjolras to stand for hours at a time, rapping him on the knuckles of his bow hand or underneath his left elbow with a conductor’s baton each time he showed even the barest symptoms of tiring. Enjolras was never allowed a shoulder-rest, chin-rest, or finger-tapes, all the usual criteria for teaching children but deemed unnecessary by his teacher. Due to this, Enjolras quickly developed the perfect soloist’s posture, exceptional dexterity in his left hand, and proficiency in all types of bowings, position-work and vibrato, all by the age of about twelve.

Along with this came a distinct hatred for the violin. His fingers constantly cramped from hours of forced practice after school each day, and his friends made fun of his constantly irritated “violin hickies”—angry red marks on his underside of his jaw and on his collarbone, set permanently into place by the sharp wood. He eventually threatened to quit the instrument all together, but his parents compromised by getting him a new teacher. She was nice, sure, but he found her quite dull, and she always gave him boring music to practice, made him spend weeks on pieces he had perfected in hours. He protested loudly to his parents, who found another teacher, and another. They all either bored Enjolras or quit due to his...excitable temper. One could imagine their relief when René Grantaire, a mildly famous soloist notorious for his laidback attitude and surprisingly intense performances for his young age at 23, moved close to their residence.

He had been Grantaire’s sole pupil for the past year and a half. At first, he had been affronted by his new teacher’s almost lazy approach to music, opting at first for Enjolras to practice slow, surreal pieces with bizarre chords and out-of-place key changes, instead of the technically demanding caprices Enjolras had grown fond of. He was certainly weird, and he wasn’t serious when he needed to be; he invited his roommate friends into the piano room while Enjolras was over, talking about dinner or whatever as Enjolras warmed up beside the baby grand, or making up weird, intricate, and increasingly complicated analogies for the style Enjolras should play in. Quite frankly, he pissed Enjolras off.

However.

Enjolras was a...growing boy. However much Courfeyrac liked to pretend he was a robot, Enjolras truly did had his own feelings and thoughts. Like now, when Grantaire was standing in front of him, wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants dangling off his sturdy hips. His olive skin was decorated with colorful tattoos, and Enjolras wasn’t even going to pretend that the curly black happy trail leading from his bellybutton into the waistband of his pants wasn’t attractive. Can you blame him, really? Enjolras was a gay, teenaged, blood-sucking leech, and he was pretty much willing to latch onto any man even remotely attractive in his radius. Not that Grantaire, his insufferable, sarcastic violin teacher, would ever know that.

So, he just cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to let me in?”

Grantaire’s eyes widened minisculely behind his thick glasses. He opened the door wider. “Yes, sorry. Go get tuned, warm-up some, and I’ll be there in a few.”

Enjolras simply breezed past him, making a beeline for the piano room, while Grantaire went off to probably put on some actual clothes or something. Enjolras was undecided if this was an improvement or not.

He unpacked his violin—a 1785 Lupot; his parents refused to reveal how much it had cost them, and Enjolras often hated them for seemingly throwing money at things when he just as easily could have been successful on a much cheaper instrument—and bow, tightened it, and tuned to the piano. He shuffled around his music, settling on something loud and difficult he had memorized ages ago. He opened with a rolling major chord, quickly becoming entranced with the dancing sixteenth notes, but was soon interrupted, and his bow stopped abruptly.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” said Grantaire gruffly, leaning on the doorway, his voice muffled by the toothbrush in his hand. He was wearing a shirt and actual pants now, and his hair looked maybe a bit less messy, if you squinted. “By warm-up, I meant scales.”

Enjolras scowled; nobody liked scales. Grantaire snapped out a quick tempo with the hand not occupied brushing his teeth. Enjolras complied, if a little annoyed. Grantaire walked out to the kitchen, and returned a few minutes later eating an apple, chewing quietly as he listened to Enjolras slave away at G minor. “There’s an E flat,” he said absentmindedly as Enjolras made his way up the scale.

“I know,” said Enjolras, because he did. He played an E flat to demonstrate.

“Sounds a little sharp to me,” Grantaire said with a shrug, taking another bite of his apple. Enjolras was again reminded to be angry. Grantaire had forgotten about their lesson, had opened his own door fourteen minutes late, and was now eating his meagre breakfast while criticizing Enjolras’ E flat, which was perfectly in tune, by the way.

“It definitely is not,” said Enjolras.

“I dunno,” said Grantaire, a little mischievously. “Even child prodigies miss their E flats every once in awhile.”

Enjolras seethed. “I am hardly a prodigy”—he hated the word, as his parents used the fact that he had played as a child as a bragging right to impress their socialite friends, parading Enjolras around in an immaculately tailored suit since he was seven at their frequent rich-people gatherings—“and my E flat is perfectly flat, thank you.” He played the top octave again, just to show him.

Grantaire just smirked. “Better. And I was just messing with you, anyways,” he said, trashing his apple core. “I know how you get. Now, let’s get started on that sonata…”

-

Grantaire managed to get ready quickly before joining Enjolras in the piano room. The kid was a funny thing, really—Grantaire had never met someone so young and so serious about, like, literally anything. Grantaire managed to glean that he had had a pretty strict musical education from the beginning, made obvious by his straight back and curved fingers. However, he wasn’t very good at improvising dynamics when they weren’t written on the page, and Grantaire often had to force him to take notes on his sheet music. Despite this, he was really quite talented, and was especially attracted to fast, technically demanding pieces. Grantaire challenged this by making him practice weird, modern stuff, filled to the brim with dissonant chords and off-beat time signatures. This often frustrated his poor student, who would snap angrily when Grantaire pointed out his obvious mistakes. Grantaire did this at first to prove to him that Enjolras did not know everything, contrary to his air of confidence and tight attitude about music, but eventually it was just amusing to poke at him and get him riled up, looking ready to snap his bow in half with his tight grip.

Of course, his confidence and attitude was not entirely misplaced. Enjolras truly was an exemplary musician, and every performance of his that Grantaire had helped him prepare for was a success. He was concertmaster of the varsity orchestra at his high school, and had been since he was a freshman three years ago. He often competed in region- and nation-wide contests, always placing well, if not first. Grantaire had met his younger sister, Cosette, when she came to one of such competitions. They both looked incredibly similar, and he could have been convinced they were twins: long blond hair with clear white skin, small and skinny with long, delicate fingers.

Grantaire had never met Enjolras’ parents, presumably the ones who had outfitted Enjolras with his quite spectacularly beautiful instrument, and the ones paying Grantaire to pester Enjolras for two and a half hours each Sunday and Wednesday. He knew they had to be rich, as what they were paying each month was certainly something to bat an eyelash at. It was this, and the fact that Enjolras was a peculiarly demanding and interesting student, that made Grantaire only tutor him. Because of this, he got to know Enjolras’ nuances quite well, such as how he opened his mouth a little when he got too focused, or his habit of standing with his legs completely together on parts he hadn’t practiced so ardently. Both of which he was doing now.

Grantaire clicked his tongue and tapped the backs of Enjolras’ heels with his toe. Enjolras’ bow stuttered, and he tried to keep playing but—“No, no, stop,” Grantaire said. “Your bow’s backwards, now, and your posture’s wrong”—he kicked apart Enjolras’ feet to be hip-width instead of touching—“and your mouth is doing the thing.” The last part was not actually a mistake, as every musician is prone to making weird faces when they get involved in the music, but Grantaire’d be damned if he didn’t poke fun at it.

“I wasn’t even doing anything,” protested Enjolras.

“You looked like a fish,” said Grantaire truthfully. Enjolras blushed, which was strangely endearing. (Grantaire had long since admitted to himself that Enjolras was cute, in a roundabout sort of way. He just looked so solemnly serious about everything, which could be quite unbecoming on his young face, but it mostly was just kind of funny. Grantaire often had to remind himself that the boy was almost nineteen, though he certainly appeared younger.) “Plus, if you keep your legs together like that, you’ll tip over. Start from measure twenty-two, and mind the C sharps this time.”

Enjolras looked personally offended, but that wasn’t anything new. Enjolras liked to be pissy whenever he criticized him, but Grantaire knew he must have taken something from Grantaire’s constant running commentary on his playing, or else he would quit seeing Grantaire. His parents were certainly rich enough to buy lessons from the best of in the world, instead of Grantaire, who wasn’t even the best in the city, probably. Oh well. Enjolras must have admired something about Grantaire, whatever it was, and that was enough for him. And hey, the paycheck certainly wasn’t bad, either.

-

“Stop, stop, stop,” said Grantaire for the eightieth time in about an hour. He was in a particularly picky mood today, for a reason Enjolras couldn’t figure out. He quirked an eyebrow as Grantaire rose from the piano bench to come tell Enjolras what to do from up close. “You are so stiff. I can feel how locked up your shoulder is just from looking at you.”

“Sorry I want to have good posture,” snapped Enjolras, straightening his back.

“It’s not that,” said Grantaire. “Loosen up a little, relax, feel the music. It’s supposed to sound like two voices on one instrument, dancing around each other, you know...”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. It was always about feeling the music. He did feel it—he tapped his foot to keep tempo sometimes, and he always swayed a little to indicate when the section was supposed to come in when he was in orchestra. “Just because I don’t dance around while I play doesn’t mean I don’t care,” said Enjolras.

“I’m not asking you to be Lindsey Stirling,” said Grantaire, “but at least try to show some emotion other than resolute determination.” He moved closer to Enjolras, placing his hands on his right arm and shoulder. “Here. Let go of all the tension you have hung up here…” Enjolras complied, letting his bow arm droop, hanging lazily at his side instead of his usual prim and proper form. “Good,” said Grantaire, patting his shoulder once before moving to Enjolras’ left side. “See, it’s your shoulders that make you look like a fully automated mannequin trying to emulate human feelings when you play. Put down your instrument and I can show you.” Enjolras did so, albeit a little hesitantly. His posture was fine, anyways. Who cares if he was ‘stiff’ when he played--he could play what was on the page, so who cares what he looked like playing it?

Grantaire put his hand on this shoulder as well, opening his mouth to say something, but his finger brushed over Enjolras’ collarbone, and he frowned. Enjolras was about to ask what his deal was, but suddenly, Grantaire grabbed him by the jaw and pushed up a little. His face was positively aflame, he was sure of it, there was no way it wasn’t, and Enjolras squinted in embarrassment as Grantaire poked at the twin bruises on his collar and neck. “Jesus, I knew you don’t like to use a shoulder-rest or anything, but this is a little extreme, even for you.”

Enjolras didn’t really want to know what that meant. He nodded as best he could towards the music on his stand. “Bach didn’t have a shoulder-rest.”

“I hate to be the one to break this to you, but you’re not Bach,” Grantaire pointed out, letting go of him and stepping back. “Do you at least use a cloth or sponge or something under your jaw when you practice at home?”

“Sometimes,” said Enjolras. He didn’t much pay attention to these types of things; when he was stricken with the mood to practice, oftentimes he kind of just tightened his bow and went to work without regard to how much his fingers or arms would hurt after a few hours.

“Sometimes, he says,” muttered Grantaire. “Those will start to hurt eventually, if they don’t already. Try and pay attention to these types of things for once. Fuck.” He looked mildly alarmed. “Sorry.”

“You can say fuck,” supplied Enjolras unhelpfully.

“Whatever,” said Grantaire, looking a little frustrated as he took his spot again on the piano bench. “Now relax, like I said, and start from the beginning. I know you have it memorized, so close your eyes and try to actually feel the music this time…”

-

The rest of their lesson went by fine, though Enjolras looked a little red-faced after Grantaire reprimanded him on being an actual idiot. Grantaire’s roommates Bossuet and Joly all filtered in at some point in the following couple hours, greeting Enjolras and going off to the kitchen for lunch. Grantaire’s phone alarm went off at 12:55, signaling the end of their lesson. Grantaire offered to make up for the fifteen minutes he missed at the beginning, but Enjolras quickly declined and packed up. Joly and Bossuet called goodbyes after him, which Enjolras quietly returned before darting out the door and speeding off in his obnoxiously red car.

“He has a crush on you,” Bossuet said delightedly, eating his sandwich. Joly rolled his eyes and elbowed him lightly in the stomach before returning to doing whatever shit he does on his phone.

Grantaire sighed and opened the fridge, looking for leftover lasagna from the other night. “He does not,” he said. “I’m his violin tutor, dumbass.”

“He goes red whenever you so much as touch him,” Bossuet pointed out. “He’s real funny about it. C’mon, Joly, back me up on this!”

“I don’t want to get involved with your idiocy,” said Joly, paying the barest amount of attention to their conversation as was physically possible.

Grantaire pulled out the tupperware and began scooping its contents onto a plate. “He’s, like, an actual child. He’s probably having a sexuality crisis and unfortunately subconsciously selected me to project his problems on.”

“Well I think it’s sweet,” said Bossuet, though sounding a little discouraged now.

Grantaire put his plate in the microwave. “Doesn’t matter. He has his Juilliard audition in February, he’ll get in, and he’ll be gone to America forever. He’ll forget about me after a day there. It’ll be fine.”

This was a fact in Grantaire’s mind. He had know in the back of his head for a few weeks now that Enjolras had some sort of weird amalgamation of feelings about him, but judging from how hard Enjolras seemed to be trying to hide it, he wouldn’t say anything. Grantaire wouldn’t either; he enjoyed poking fun at his pupil for his often hotheaded reactions, but he didn’t want to needlessly humiliate him by bringing up his childish crush on the older man. He knew high school was rough, especially if you were gay, and Enjolras was probably already stressed from trying to keep towards the top of his class and prepare for his audition to every young musician’s wet dream. Grantaire wouldn’t add to that by acknowledging what he was positive was just a concoction of hormones and teenage angst.

Grantaire reminisced briefly on this, then ate his microwaved lasagna. It was pretty alright, as far as microwaved lasagnas went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit 5/13/18--added a little doodle. hope u like it lol, might add some more art to other chapters if i feel so inclined


	2. Crescendo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter, finally! I wrote and rewrote this several times, and I still am not ecstatic about the whole thing but couldnt be bothered to rewrite it ANOTHER time, so if it’s a little OOC, my apologies. I do enjoy Grantaire’s internal monologue in this one though. I hope you enjoy!

Enjolras’ fingers were turning white on the steering wheel. Today had been quite possibly the worst day of the whole semester, and the icing on the cake was the impossibly slow driver in front of him, taking up the whole street so he couldn’t go around them, thusly causing him to be late. Great. 

This whole day had been an absolute mess from the very beginning. Last night, Cosette had used the last of the conditioner without telling Enjolras, so his hair in the morning was unruly and frizzy, which was quite the nuisance, especially since his only hairband had snapped off during first period Calculus. He was blessed with a quiz, completely forgotten about until he walked in, sparking the migraine that had slowly grown colossal as the day continued. Second period wasn’t as bad, but the new seating chart had him sitting in front of the obnoxiously loud kid who smacked his gum with such fierce passion that Enjolras spent most of class wondering how he hadn’t broken his jaw yet. Third period Orchestra was awful, as the violas apparently didn’t know how a cut-off worked and kept playing every time the director signalled them to stop. The migraine was only amplified at this point by the glare he kept sending their way, though they were, of course, blissfully unaware the entire ninety minute rehearsal. Fourth period came with a Literature test that he had stayed up all night studying for, which he definitely failed. Just yesterday, his teacher had heavily hinted that it would be only multiple choice, when, lo and behold, it was in fact ten free-response, philosophical questions with no multiple choice in sight. Usually Enjolras had a way with words, but he made up such absolute bullshit at this point that he couldn’t even remember what he had written. Thankfully he was free from the confines of high school after that, but he had his usual hour and a half lesson immediately afterwards, not giving him even a bit of breathing room to unwind from the stressful day and subsequently stormy mood.

Fuck. He usually somewhat enjoyed going to Grantaire’s after school on Wednesdays, but this day was simply not destined to be good to him. He finally slipped through a narrow opening to pass the unfathomably slow car in front of him, speeding his way to Grantaire’s familiar boulevard. His car puttered to a stop in front of the walkway to the front door. He relaxed his hands’ death-grip on the steering wheel and crossed his forearms over the top of the wheel, lying his forehead on them. His brain felt like it was melting and freezing at the same time, not helped by the bridge of his glasses pushing into his nose (oh, let it not be forgotten how he dropped his contact on the floor and was unable to recover it this morning). He gave himself a minute to just sit there and compose himself, eyes closed with deep breaths that rattled coming up. He was already late, what’s another minute, anyways? Grantaire probably wouldn’t really care.

He eventually got out of his car, grabbed his case and music from the otherwise clean backseat, and made his way up to the front door. He rang the doorbell with his pinkie finger and waited on the doormat for a few seconds. When the door opened, it was Grantaire. 

“You’re late,” he said with a gleeful smirk. 

-

They were not even ten minutes into the lesson when the familiar ka-chunk of the key in its lock came from the front door. Grantaire was reminded of earlier that morning when Joly had told him he was going to bring his new girlfriend over this afternoon and introduce her to him and Bossuet. 

“I’m going to bring my new girlfriend over this afternoon and introduce her to you and Bossuet,” Joly had said. “Please don’t be weird. She says that my hypochondriac tendencies are endearing? which, take that as you will, but I really don’t need her to think I’m even stranger when I show her my best friends and one of them is, I don’t know, day-drinking and spouting embarrassing stories about me when we first met or something.”

“I’m insulted,” Grantaire had said with the tone of someone who was really not insulted at all. “But fine. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of her or anything.”

“I know you would love to do just that, but I appreciate the gesture,” Joly had replied, which yeah, okay, that might have had an ounce of truth. What, Grantaire was a great storyteller, okay, and people just really had to know about that time Bossuet had convinced Joly to go and do that thing with the fire hydrant and their neighbor’s now-infamous key-lime pie—

“I’m home,” called Joly as he walked in. A girl with two long black braids down her back followed him in by the hand. He caught Grantaire’s eye through the open walkway to the piano room. “Oh, Grantaire! I forgot you had Enjolras over today!”

You are a farce, thought Grantaire. You knew full and well this would happen, and probably planned it that way so you could show your new girlfriend that your friend was a musician and, since literally everyone likes music, she would be impressed and y’all could talk about it and you could seem like you were knowledgeable about something other than your medicinal bubble. You clever little bastard, you. Enjolras stopped playing beside him, and subtly leaned to see who was at the door. “This is Musichetta,” Joly said, leading her over to the piano room. “Musichetta, this is Grantaire and Enjolras.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” said Grantaire with a warm smile. “Joly’s told me a lot about you.” 

He had done nothing of the sort. Joly was pretty private about his love life—or lack thereof, up until now—because he was afraid Bossuet, and Grantaire by extension, would meddle. To be entirely fair though, Bossuet usually ended up meddling completely by accident, so it wasn’t really his fault. Grantaire usually just liked watching his friends fail to pick up the ladies, but then again, he 1) was gay and 2) still had to deal with that pesky, juvenile crush Enjolras apparently had on him. Which he hadn’t really planned on dealing with at all, in all honesty. Anyways.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Grantaire,” said Musichetta, shaking his hand. Her grip was hard and warm, and he liked her already. She turned to Enjolras, who had taken his instrument down from his chin and was looking awkward enough. “You must be his student, right? How long have you been playing the violin?”

“Yes, and since I was seven, so about twelve years,” Enjolras replied, shifting his weight to his left foot. 

“Oh!” said Musichetta. “I thought you were younger. You have kind of a baby face.”

“I know,” said Enjolras, resigned, though with a very small smile. “I get it a lot.”

Musichetta turned to Grantaire and Joly. “Do you mind if I stay and listen or something? It’s a real lovely instrument you have there, and I haven’t heard such fresh music in quite a while.”

“Sure, why not?” said Grantaire with a shrug. He didn’t think Enjolras would mind, as he had no trouble playing in large performance halls or at his parents’ dreadful parties that he complained too often about. Plus, Musichetta was fresh ears, so it would do him good to get some new input about his music, especially the etudes and caprices for his audition coming up soon, as Enjolras wouldn’t let him forget. What harm could it do to have her listen?

-

Enjolras felt magnificently horrible. Musichetta was very nice and he knew it would be good to get someone besides Grantaire to listen to him play, but in all honesty, he felt absolutely dreadful. He kept making incredibly stupid mistakes, ones that he hadn’t made in years, and Musichetta and Joly were hearing all of it loud and clear just in the kitchen, the next room over. He didn’t even know why he was so worked up about something so stupid—he had performed countless times in front of much larger audiences, so what was it about now that made him not play properly? He felt stuck in his own head, and every joke or critique Grantaire made made his hands shake and his face burn. He couldn’t even play the easiest piece in his repertoire without a note being out of tune. His migraine knocked incessantly behind his eyes at every forte, and his bow shook with every piano. 

“Your bow is backwards,” said Grantaire.

“I know,” said Enjolras. 

“And your shift into the C sharp wasn’t clean,” said Grantaire.

“I know,” said Enjolras.

“And your vibrato was too fast and tight—didn’t we work on this last week?” said Grantaire.

Enjolras closed his mouth for fear of many angry words that he didn’t mean flying out if he didn’t.

Grantaire scrutinized him for a moment before sighing, a disappointed look gracing his strong features, and Enjolras felt something blue and horrible scrabble at his lungs. “I don’t think you’ve ever been this unprepared for a lesson,” he said. “You keep making stupid mistakes, and I know you can do a whole lot better, so—”

“Can I go to the bathroom, please,” said Enjolras, suddenly.

Grantaire looked a little startled at Enjolras’ interruption before nodding. “Yeah, uh, sure. It’s the first door on the right down the hallway beside the fridge…”

Enjolras set his violin and bow down on the piano bench before darting out of the room to the restroom, not looking at where Joly and Musichetta were talking and laughing together at the kitchen table. 

He closed the door, locked it, and sat on top of the lid of the toilet, looking at himself over the sink into the mirror. His face was flushed and his eyes were dull. He forced himself to breathe deeply, but the air felt stuck in his trachea, and it bubbled and sputtered on its way up. You’re an idiot, he said to his lonely reflection. You will absolutely not shut yourself in the bathroom because your violin teacher who you happen to have a crush on said, very disappointedly, that he knows you could do better. 

And that’s the whole problem, wasn’t it? Enjolras knew he could have done better—at the Calculus quiz this morning, and the Literature test, and now, messing up things as simple as bow changes? Honestly, Enjolras felt like total shit, and he knew it was only his fault, too. 

Hot tears melted down his cheeks to the tip of his nose like candle wax, and he broke eye contact with his miserable reflection to watch them drip between his legs onto the porcelain cover of the toilet seat like summer rain. He made a resolute promise to himself to practice more, study more, anything, as he cried very quietly, so nobody could hear his embarrassment outside of the bathroom.

-

Enjolras had been playing weirdly the whole day, and Grantaire couldn’t really figure out why. Maybe it was because Musichetta was over or something—but no, that didn’t make any sense; Enjolras had never had stage fright as long as Grantaire had known him, and most Sundays, Joly and Bossuet ended up listening to them as they ate lunch anyways. Maybe he had had a rough day at school, Grantaire thought, but that wouldn’t really explain why Enjolras’ shifts suddenly weren’t high enough and his style was patchy in certain areas he knew they had worked on before. That mostly left that Enjolras hadn’t practiced, which didn’t make sense either as Enjolras was the single most determined high school musician Grantaire had ever met. Grantaire could tell Enjolras was getting frustrated quickly, but the boy thankfully kept his mouth shut most of the time Grantaire gave him a particularly scathing comment. It hit the boiling point when he played an arpeggio sequence quite possibly the worst he had ever played it in Grantaire’s presence. Enjolras looked ready to blow, then excused himself to the bathroom, hopefully to cool off some steam, though it was very unlike him to just walk out of a problem instead of trying to fix it. Oh well. Grantaire didn’t think too much about it.

That is, he didn’t think much about it until he realized he had been gone for ten minutes. That was kind of a long time to be in a bathroom, right? 

He abandoned his post playing Candy Crush on his phone at the piano bench to knock on the bathroom door. “Enjolras? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” said Enjolras very smally from the other side of the door. “Sorry for taking so long, I’ll be out in a minute.” Grantaire heard a sniff and a deep breath from inside, which was pretty alarming, though possibly circumstantial. Maybe he just has bad allergies, Grantaire thought weakly. 

“Um, are you sure?” asked Grantaire, making frantic eye contact with Joly, who just looked between him and the door and shrugged. “I can bring you a glass of water or something if you want.”

There was a pause before Enjolras replied. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

Grantaire then crossed the kitchen to fetch a cup and fill it with water. 

“Is he alright?” asked Musichetta softly.

Grantaire shrugged, and responded in kind. “He says so, but he seemed a little strung out today while he was playing. I thought maybe he just hadn’t practiced or something.” 

“I didn’t even notice,” said Musichetta, louder. “I thought it was wonderful, regardless. He’s very good, and his music is very beautiful.”

Grantaire smiled beside himself, and he liked Musichetta even more. 

He knocked on the door again. “I have some water for you,” he said. “Can I come in?” There was the ka-chunk of the lock coming undone, and he opened the door. Enjolras was sitting on the toilet, looking pretty worse for wear. His hair was a bit frizzy around his face, and his eyes looked red. Grantaire felt a pang of something terrible strum his heart. He handed him wordlessly the water and closed the door behind him. 

He had literally no idea of what to say as Enjolras drank with his eyes closed. How do you comfort a stressed, probably emotionally-stunted teenager who was probably crying for ten minutes in your bathroom probably because of you? How do you even approach this situation? Like, hey, sorry I harassed you to the point of tears because your playing wasn’t up to standard on the incredibly high bar you’ve set for yourself? Grantaire frowned to himself, feeling distinctly awful.

“Sorry for freaking out on you,” said Enjolras, handing Grantaire the cup. “We can go back to the piano room now.”

“No,” said Grantaire, surprising himself. “Don’t apologize. And I’d rather, er, talk about why it happened, actually.” Look at Grantaire, being an adult and championing for communication. He was a little proud of himself, despite the situation.

Enjolras squinted at him. “Can’t we pretend this never happened? I’m fine, now.”

Grantaire scoffed. “Clearly you’re not. Is it something I did? Because whatever it was, I know I’m an idiot and I’m sorry and I promise it wasn’t intentional.”

“I know, okay,” said Enjolras. He looked down at his shoes. “It’s just...stupid, really. I should have been able to play better, and I couldn’t, and you saying I was unprepared... I practice so much, and for you to think I don’t... “ He trailed off again, which, for someone as succinct as Enjolras, was, again, a little concerning. He had never seen Enjolras, usually stoic and hard, so emotionally vulnerable. It was a bit disconcerting.

“You don’t have to perfect all the time,” said Grantaire. “You work harder than anyone I’ve ever met, and your skill shows it. You’re really amazing, and sometimes I think I should be the one taking lessons from you. I admire your passion and determination every time you play, so don’t ever think I don’t.” Phew. That could have gone a lot worse, considering the situation. Enjolras looked a little less miserable now, at least, which was mission success as far as Grantaire was concerned. 

“Thanks,” said Enjolras, and a single involuntary tear slipped out of the corner of his almond-shaped eye, twinkling as it reflected the soft bathroom lighting. Grantaire’s eyes followed it as it trickled down Enjolras’ white cheek, to the corner of Enjolras’ soft, pink lips...

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by true events. You’re not a real musician until you cry in your teacher’s bathroom because they get disappointed too hard. 
> 
> Again, sorry if E is OOC...I prefer writing Grantaire as he is more relatable to me but writing Enjolras as a teenager is proving pretty difficult. Im trying my best though! 
> 
> Comments and kudos are my bread and buttah. They make me want to continue writing, so, you know...


	3. Dolcissimo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter yay! 
> 
> In case it isn’t clear: E and R live in the same neighborhood in a smaller suburb outside of central Paris. The train/RER is around the outer reaches of the greater Paris area, and the metro is only within the actual “city”. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Grantaire: just emailed u some xmas msc pdfs. plz have them ready by next sun, memorized if possible. they r not hard so just practice them a few times b4 sun. soz 4 inconvenience, if any caused. x, R

Enj: Might I ask why you are having me practice Christmas music right now? I hope you recall that my audition is in little over two months, and I was hoping that we could work on the Paganini No 5, as it’s been giving me trouble. 

Thanks,  
J. Enjolras

Grantaire: i kno when ur audition is, u literally WILL NOT let me forget. anyways i have a plan for sunday and u r going 2 help. it will b gr8 and awesum

Enj: I cannot express simply over text how much I doubt that.

Grantaire: dont u trust me

Enj: No. Absolutely not.

Grantaire: well it will be fun. i kno u dont like fun but u can deal w it

Enj: I like fun plenty, thank you very much. 

Grantaire: sure u do. also hope u dont have anything important it will b a few hrs longer than usual lesson k

Enj: Whatever. I’ll have that music memorized by Sunday. 

Grantaire: gr8 c u then

-

Grantaire opened the door before Enjolras could ring the doorbell. He was freshly-shaven, was wearing a dark green, worn-looking coat, and had his violin case in one hand with his cell phone in the other. 

“Um,” said Enjolras.

Grantaire stood with something strange glimmering in his eyes, reflecting the sunlight filtering through the icicles dripping from the awning. “You know the way to the train station, right?”

“Of course I do,” scoffed Enjolras, reasonably skeptical. “Where are we going?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” said Grantaire. He looked Enjolras up and down—he thought he looked alright in his red peacoat and scarf, but apparently Grantaire thought otherwise—before squinting at him a little. 

“Do I have something on my face,” said Enjolras, deadpan.

Grantaire frowned. “No, you just look too…posh.”

Enjolras tried to not be insulted, but wasn’t entirely successful. “I look fine. It’s called being well dressed.”

Grantaire just waved him inside into the foyer and held out his hand. Enjolras looked at it, then looked back at Grantaire. “Your coat,” explained Grantaire.

“No?” said Enjolras. “It’s freezing outside. I’m keeping it.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Just trust me, kidd-o.” In hindsight, Enjolras strongly suspected he said this just to make him angry, but his mouth was already running before he had time to fully recognize this. 

“Don’t call me that,” he said automatically, a little affronted. “I am an adult under the eyes of the law, thank you.”

“I didn’t ask, but if you don’t take off your coat, I will use force,” said Grantaire lightly. Enjolras squinted and relented. He gave it to Grantaire’s outstretched hand, who proceeded to hang it neatly on the coat-rack. Had there always been a coat-rack there? Grantaire didn’t seem like the kind of person to have a coat-rack. Regardless. 

Grantaire shrugged off his own army-green long-coat and handed it to Enjolras, who took it with much confusion for a few moments. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes again. “Wear it. It’ll make you fit right in,” he said, kind of like he was talking to someone stupid, which Enjolras was decidedly not. 

Enjolras frowned, infinitely skeptical. Was it just him, or was Grantaire speaking exclusively in riddles this afternoon? “Fit in where?” he asked, frustrated. “Where are we even going?”

“I’ll tell you when we get there,” said Grantaire, “so stop asking.”

Enjolras furrowed his brow, slowly shrugging on Grantaire’s coat. He loathed to admit it, but it was delightfully big, and very warm, despite the slightly tattered appearance. It also smelled a bit like Grantaire, which Enjolras was briefly, unexpectedly happy about, but then quickly embarrassed to have noticed at all.

-

“Where are we going?” asked Enjolras for the bajillionth time since they left Grantaire’s house. Honestly, his stubbornness could have been admirable in literally any other setting, but in the setting of sitting across from each other in a moderately full train, a little worn out from Grantaire forcefully dragging Enjolras by the elbow through the train station after enduring ten minutes in Enjolras’ irritatingly beautiful car and the aforementioned blond asking the same goddamn question over and over, it was starting to get maybe a tiny bit annoying. 

Grantaire sighed and relented, if only a little bit, dropping his pencil from the sketchbook he thankfully had grabbed before leaving, knowing it would alleviate his boredom on the ride to central Paris. “We’re going to meet one of my friends. Now please, stop asking. Please.”

Enjolras did not seem to take this answer happily, but he took it nonetheless. Grantaire waited for him to protest or ponder further, but when he did not, he resumed his drawing. 

It was, of course, a sketch of Enjolras, because Grantaire was nothing if not predictable. It was of his current pose leaning up against the window, blue eyes lazily tracking the world as it whizzed by through the foggy, fingerprinted glass. His coat—Grantaire’s coat—was much too big, as Grantaire was both taller and wider in the torso than him, so the sleeves had to be rolled up and still fell past his wrists. He looked a little lost in his head, which was a normal thing for him to be, but mostly just emanated a soft and misty kind of mood that Grantaire couldn’t quite place as he drew. 

The sketch wasn’t much, really, mostly just long lines and shading he blurred out with his pinkie to indicate the shadows slowly creeping across the train car from wide windows jaundiced by time, but Grantaire took special care in the serendipitous details: the shadow caused by his long eyelashes, the unruly flyaways escaping by his ears, the curl of his knuckles, pink from the cold, around a small tear in the first layer of fabric of his coat. 

He was quite photogenic, or drawing-genic, or—well, whatever. Quite the model, really, but the kid didn’t need to hear that, lest he let it inflate his ego too much. 

-

Enjolras let himself get dizzy watching the trees whizz by through the window. They were almost completely devoid of leaves, and the ones that did manage to cling to the gnarled branches were brown and crispy-looking. Fun to step on and crunch, said the childish part of his brain. Only a few were red or yellow, leftover dregs of a colorful fall a few months prior that were there for but a second before spiralling away. 

He fell into a trance of sorts as his eyes tracked the leaves, but he soon noticed, out of the peripheral corner of his eye, Grantaire staring at him. Well, kind of—he studied Enjolras for a few moments before looking back down at his notebook. A sketchpad, Enjolras quickly gleaned, and turned from the swirls of brown and red and yellow and blue to the man sitting opposite of him. 

“What are you drawing?” he asked, tilting his head to the side a little bit, pushing up the cuffs of his coat on his hands. 

Grantaire did not move his head, but his eyes looked out under his lashes to meet Enjolras’. “Nothing important.”

Enjolras was not pacified by this answer. “Can I see?”

“No,” said Grantaire. 

“Why not,” said Enjolras. 

Grantaire sat up fully and closed his sketchbook. “It’s not very good,” he admitted. “None of my sketches are worthy of seeing the light, not until they’ve got a few layers of paint on top of them.”

Enjolras recalled, quite abruptly, the amount of paintings in the parts of Grantaire’s house he had seen. In the piano room was one of a leaping ballerina, a flurry of reds and blues painted thickly like sleet behind her; all along the walls of the foyer were framed swirls of trees in bloom and lamplight reflections in puddles; even in the bathroom was a vague portrait of a woman, the barest impressions of sparkling gray eyes under soft shadows. “In your house—all of them are yours?” 

Grantaire barked a laugh. “Yes, they are.”

“They are very beautiful,” said Enjolras, which was true. He knew microscopically little about art, but even he knew that their colors and textures were nothing to upturn one’s nose at. 

“They’re alright,” said Grantaire with a small smile. “I sell all the good ones, and the bad ones get to be hung up in my house. My friend Jehan buys all the worst and sells them at flea markets to old ladies and hippies for spare change. He says he enjoys connecting with the community or something like that, but I know it’s just to get close to the blue-hairs and steal their knitting patterns.”

Enjolras just hummed a bit at that, and then went back to staring out the window once Grantaire didn’t say anything else. It was still a few minutes before their stop, and Enjolras rather enjoyed the surprising calm of the trailing leaves as they whispered across the horizon. 

-

Grantaire was late, as usual. One would think Éponine would be used to it, what with knowing him for so long, but his perpetual need to show up at least ten minutes late has grinded her gears for the past decade. Seriously, so many watches as birthday gifts should have given him half a hint, but alas, here she was. 

And here she was indeed. She smiled at a young kid who bashfully ran up to drop a few euros in her open viola case by her foot before skipping off to her family pushing through the crowds of Paris’ second-busiest metro station. She and Grantaire had previously busked the first-busiest for a prettier penny than one would come by here, but they had gotten kicked out eventually by some grumpy-faced policeman for “not having a public performance permit” or something stupid like that. 

Éponine had been busking the sights, streets, and metro stations of Paris since she was about fifteen years old. It began first out of necessity—money was tightly wound in her family, so anything went in order to scrape up some pocket change. But when she moved out at eighteen to get a job and apartment for her siblings away from their parents, she found herself craving the rush of fighting for commuters’ attentions and, more importantly, cash. Sometimes, when her little brother didn’t have any homework, he went with her and somehow brought in twice as many euros by the end of the evening. Unfortunately, little Gavroche had divisions and multiplications worksheets to finish before Monday, so she entrusted him to Azelma’s lone care so she could go out and meet Grantaire. 

Speaking of, the guy in question was finally showing up a grand total of thirteen minutes late. A young man with frizzy blond hair and a stern face was following him. 

She made an impromptu ending to her tune and turned to face Grantaire as he approached. “Long time no see, loser,” she said fondly, and they kissed each other on the cheeks. 

“Likewise, nerd,” he said before stepping back and pulling the blondie forward. “Éponine, this is my student, Enjolras. Enjolras, this is my best friend, Éponine.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Enjolras politely, reaching out to shake her hand. She took it and did so. 

“I like your coat,” said Éponine. 

“It’s Grantaire’s,” said Enjolras.

“I know,” said Éponine with a little smirk, and Enjolras turned a subtle but noticeable shade of pink, if you were looking. Éponine was generally more observant than one would generally guess. “Smart. Trust me when I say the worse for wear you look, the more money you make. Whenever my brother comes along, he makes a point to look like he got run over and backed-up on, and then he ends up peddling more money than me.” 

“How is Gavroche?” asked Grantaire mildly as he set his case on the ground and began to unpack. “I’m pretty sure he’s the one that stole my keys like three months ago and he never gave them back.”

Éponine just shrugged. “He likes you, so you’ll get them back eventually.”

“Sooner rather than later,” muttered Grantaire with no real venom as he tightened his bow. 

The whole time, the boy, Enjolras, stood a bit awkwardly behind him. “Well, unpack, then,” she told him. “You don’t make any money sitting there looking pretty.”

He nodded and did so beside her, looking a little peeved as he did, his eyebrows furrowing low on his forehead. 

“Who pissed in your cereal this morning?” said Éponine breezily. 

Enjolras looked a little embarrassed that she noticed anything, but honestly, it was hard not to with his almost perpetual small scowl. Premature wrinkles, Éponine wanted to say, but she held her tongue. “I have an audition for Juilliard coming up,” he explained. “I just wished that Grantaire would help me prepare, rather than taking me to play...here.” He narrowed his eyes accusingly at the hot crowds of general public as they rushed through the station. 

“Please, for the love of God, be quiet about your audition, please,” begged Grantaire. He turned to Éponine. “He won’t shut up about it. It’s in February, and it’s not even Christmas yet. Help me.”

Éponine just smiled sharply. “I’m sure it will be fine. If you’re half as good as Grantaire says you are, then it’ll work out.”

“That’s what I said,” groaned Grantaire. “But he doesn’t listen to me.”

“I told you my Paganini was giving me trouble,” protested Enjolras. 

“Nobody cares about Paganini,” replied Grantaire, exasperated. “It’s almost Christmas, Enjolras. People care about Santa Claus and Mariah Carey.”

“I’m Jewish,” said Enjolras sourly. 

“Christmas has been non-denominationally celebrated for decades,” said Grantaire. 

“That doesn’t excuse the fact that Jewish people have been—“

Oh, Lord. Éponine rolled her eyes. This would be a fun afternoon. 

-

Grantaire knew taking Enjolras busking with him and Éponine would upset the boy at first, but he hadn’t anticipated how quickly his mood would turn. One moment, Enjolras was bitching about his god-forsaken audition; the next, he was smiling warmly and thanking people as they passed by and dropped coins or bills at the cases by their feet. A few small groups of tourists stopped to take videos their little ensemble, requesting songs and giving praise in English that Enjolras translated. They were always the most generous, and their handfuls of centimes and euros clinked brightly between their fingers. 

This was a different side of Enjolras. For every part stubborn, idealistic, and annoying, he was equally charismatic, determined, and sweet. His playing was impeccable as always, but he seemed more...free, and open, which is what Grantaire had wanted. Whenever Enjolras asked why, he said it was good practice for anyone to try to convince tired, stone-faced nine-to-fivers to toss their spare change to the grungy-looking trio of individuals blocking the side of the hall; but really, Grantaire wanted to see Enjolras loose and free.

Grantaire had gotten a hint of how closed-off Enjolras really was last week, though he had suspected for a while that the boy was more stressed than he let on. Lord knew how tough high school was, especially for someone like Enjolras who refused to assimilate or “fit in”, and that on top of the anticipation of his audition (Grantaire joked about it, but of course he knew its real and actual importance to Enjolras’ future) and the likely less than stellar home life with inattentive parents who threw money at all their woes and paraded their children around at cocktail parties like circus elephants. Grantaire’s life hadn’t been easy either, but seeing Enjolras crying in his bathroom, and trying to conceal it, no less, had plucked Grantaire’s heart-strings like delicate pizzicato. Enjolras deserved to be happy and successful and free with how hard he worked and how passionate he was about everything, and Grantaire wanted to give him a taste of that freedom he and Éponine had felt, playing for the masses of mildly interested commuters sometimes for money but mostly just because they could. 

 

As afternoon faded into evening, so too did the their trio. Enjolras had started to tire before the both of them, but Grantaire quickly followed suit. Éponine, however, was a seasoned veteran and made fun of them both before grudgingly agreeing to stop for the day. They had collectively amassed quite a bit of money, so they wandered around outside in the buttery white snow before settling into a cafe and getting a light dinner and bottle of wine, though Grantaire drank most of that. As their meal progressed, Enjolras grew less afraid of Éponine--to be fair, she was pretty intimidating at first--and she teased him mercilessly in return. Grantaire and Enjolras argued on many things, and Éponine flip-flopped sides each time, though none grew very serious and generally ended with Enjolras winning. They paid for their meal apologetically with a pile of coins and bills from their earnings, and Éponine pocketed the rest to give to Gavroche, since he couldn’t come with her. 

It was well after dark before they parted ways. Éponine waved them both goodbye and took a different line to get home, the viola case strapped to her back bouncing in time with her messy black ponytail as she left. 

Grantaire pulled Enjolras onto an empty-ish metro car, filled with the familiarly ambient hum of the nighttime metro and the less-familiar rumble of Enjolras snoring lightly beside him. At one point, he leaned over in his sleep and his head fell to rest on Grantaire’s shoulder, who didn’t mind much at all. He eventually had to wake him up to switch to the RER, but he fell asleep again quickly after sitting down. Grantaire had half the mind to pull out his sketchbook again and draw the inside of the rest of the train car, fluorescent lights flickering, the moon shining in through the yellowed window flushing the whole car with a certain kind of slow, sleepy light, but his arm was currently occupied by Enjolras drooling profusely onto his shoulder, and Grantaire would have rather not disturb him. 

 

“Hey,” Grantaire said softly, shaking the sleeping body next to him. “Our stop is coming up.”

“Oh,” said Enjolras, sitting up properly. He wiped his chin with his sleeve, then noticed with hooded eyes the wet-looking stain on Grantaire’s hoodie. “Sorry for falling asleep on you,” he murmured. 

“Don’t worry about it,” assured Grantaire as the train chugged to a stop. They quickly made their way to the doors, and Enjolras winced at the loud noise they made as they whooshed open. Grantaire basically led Enjolras by the arm through the train station back outside to Enjolras’ car. 

Enjolras tugged his keys out of his pocket with some small degree of difficulty before walking to the driver’s side, but Grantaire stole them right out of his hand. “I’ll drive,” he said, and Enjolras looked like he wanted to protest but the desire to pass out in shotgun overcame it. 

Grantaire started the car and turned on the seat heaters to their highest effect. “What’s your address?” he asked as he turned out of the parking lot. Enjolras quietly muttered it before promptly falling asleep for the third time. Poor kid, thought Grantaire fondly, as he navigated his way through their shared neighborhood to the street and house Enjolras had told him. He pulled up the driveway and put the car in park. He nudged him awake. “Don’t forget your violin in the back,” he reminded him as he too got out of the car. “You don’t want it to freeze overnight.” Enjolras just nodded before doing so, and Grantaire accompanied him to the front door after retrieving his own case. Enjolras jiggled open the locked door and turned to face Grantaire once he was successful.

“Thank you,” he said, devoid of his usual composure and eloquence as he was interrupted by a pestering yawn, “for this afternoon. Meeting Éponine was nice, and so was dinner, and especially playing with you guys…” He trailed off, and scrubbed his eye with his fist as he set his things down in the foyer. “It was just really nice.” 

“My pleasure,” said Grantaire with a slight smile. Enjolras smiled back before, surprisingly, hugging Grantaire. Startled, Grantaire was stiff for a second before returning the gesture for a few moments. Enjolras pulled back, and his blush was evident even in the waning moonlight.

“Goodnight,” he said quietly. 

“Goodnight,” said Grantaire, his grin growing a little bigger. Enjolras closed the door, and Grantaire started his brief walk home, unfazed by the cold. It was not until he was inside, taking off his thick hoodie to hang up on the coat-rack that he realized that Enjolras still had on his own green long-coat. For some reason, the thought did not inconvenience him; rather, he felt a little warm inside, and he dreamt of snow and elves and blond boys whose hair tickled his nose as they slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went to Paris last summer for a mission trip, and besides doing actual mission work my favorite parts were sitting on the RER or metro, playing Mao or Go Fish as we all tried desperately to not fall asleep because we were so exhausted the whole week. I was the youngest person on that trip, so naturally I was always the one that fell asleep first. Oh well. Needless to say, I really enjoyed writing this chapter because of those memories. 
> 
> Also, I don’t hate Éponine, she just feels like a viola type of gal. No hard feelings?
> 
> Kudos and comments especially encourage me to keep writing, so please kindly leave them if you’d like to read more!


	4. Allegro Assai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! 
> 
> I hated writing this chapter. I hope it doesn’t show too much, but this chapter frustrated me a whole lot and almost made me want to not finish this thing but I forced myself to write it or else I knew it would never ever get finished. There’s about a million things I would like to fix or change, but I don’t really know how, and trust me when I say it’s not from lack of effort. Usually when I write, I have a lot of fun mixing words and descriptions into something I can be proud of, but this felt less like that and more like I was being forced to write something about characters I felt I didn’t really understand in a situation there wasn’t enough clear information on the internet on so I kind of was intentionally vague to make it more believable, I guess? Sorry for this rant. I feel like I’m losing momentum with this fic, and it’s making me pretty frustrated that I don’t know if/how I can finish it; especially since I really like and enjoyed writing the first three chapters. 
> 
> ANYWAYS. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy nonetheless.

Christmas was a quiet but happy affair in the Grantaire-Joly-Bossuet household. Jehan had made them stockings with their names cross-stitched on them the year before as a gift to hang on the mantelpiece, and underneath them, the fireplace was constantly crackling with sparkling gold embers. Joly had long since declared tinsel as a safety hazard, especially with someone like Bossuet around, but they had made an evening to cut out paper stars and snowflakes to dust about the living room and foyer. Their Christmas tree was old, fake, and small, but Musichetta volunteered to come over and make it look nice, which she was very successful at, and she didn’t drop a single ornament. She ended up staying the whole week of Christmas, so Joly made her an emergency stocking out of an XXXL red sock and a white sharpie. Grantaire prepared dinner on Christmas Eve for the four of them, and they all went to sleep with full stomachs and filled hearts.

The next morning, they all opened gifts. Grantaire received an expensive rollerball pen he had been eyeing forever from Joly, a box-set of limited edition Chronicles of Narnia books from Bossuet, and a fresh bottle of cologne from Musichetta. Éponine sent him a parcel in the mail that arrived a few days before the twenty-fifth; there was no card attached, but there was a large, shaky purple smiley face drawn on the outside, and on the inside was a brand new leather wallet. Jehan met him for lunch one day and gave Grantaire a dark blue cardigan he had knitted that Grantaire foresaw himself wearing for the next two months straight, at the very least.

However, the most memorable gift came three days after Christmas in the form of a package left mysteriously on his doorstep, tucked neatly beside the door. Inside was a seemingly eclectic but meticulously wrapped group of small gifts—some luxury rosin, a crystalline glass bottle of cooking oil, and a box of still-warm jelly-filled powdered donuts. At the bottom of the package was a neatly creased letter. It started out saying that although Hanukkah was in December, it was definitely not “Jewish Christmas” as many Western societies made it out to seem, and went on to argue points that Grantaire didn’t even remember making all too much. It was signed with an aggressive “Happy Holidays”, followed by Enjolras’ signature in sparkly red gel pen. It was, all in all, an incredibly thoughtful, sweet, and distinctly Enjolrasian gift.

In return, Grantaire sent him a large collection of ponytails, scrunchies, and hair-clips, a few small watercolor paintings he had done, and a beautiful old manual metronome Jehan had found at some flea market awhile back. He filled the box with wrapping paper and glitter and sent it on its merry way.

-

New Years came and went, and it was back to the usual, if with a bit more stress. January passed by too quickly, and February was upon them faster than anticipated. Their lessons got longer and longer as Enjolras’ audition date approached; Enjolras was coerced into staying for dinner some nights, he stayed so late. On one memorable occasion, Grantaire had walked him outside to his car well past ten in the evening, trying not to smile as Enjolras berated him for spilling pad thai on the piano keys. It was remarkably domestic, and Enjolras felt a little manipulative for making Grantaire spend more time with him—at least until Grantaire started making curry whenever Enjolras stayed for supper, which he somehow had discovered was Enjolras’ favorite. Enjolras often, though very briefly, imagined coming home and kissing a smiling, apron-wearing Grantaire on the cheek as he stirred the curry bubbling on the stovetop, but his fantasy never lasted more than a few seconds before he felt a horrible trickle of thick guilt pooling in his stomach. It was just a silly crush, he knew, and he needed to focus on school and the violin more, anyways, so that’s what he did.

Eventually the Monday came for Enjolras’ flight to New York City. He was immeasurably nervous, but hopefully managed to conceal it—but what if his luggage got lost, and he had to wear his airplane clothes all week leading up to the audition? What if some flight attendant dropped his instrument case and his violin shattered into a million pieces on the plane? What if his passport or visa was denied and he had to return home? Logically, of course, he knew it was pointless to worry. He had flown alone internationally before, and surely this would not be any different, except for the fact that it was a flight to a city holding his audition for a school that would determine his entire future as a musician for the rest of his life.

He had staunchly refused Courfeyrac’s pleas to let him and Combeferre come see him off at the airport, as Combeferre had had perfect attendance all year that Enjolras would not be the one to break, and Courfeyrac was generally embarrassing to be around in public. Cosette had offered to go with him, but Enjolras really didn’t like the sound of his baby sister riding the metro home completely alone, even at nine in the morning in broad daylight, so he told her absolutely not, too. His parents were off on a cruise somewhere, but they had each sent him a good-luck text the night before, which he appreciated. He would be alone, but he had wanted it that way, so as not to let anyone on to the writhing ball of nerves slowly making itself more noticeable the closer his audition date crept.

He double triple quadruple checked his luggage the night before and the morning of his flight, making sure he had enough socks and all his music and his passport. He, of course, was not missing them, and they did not disappear between the third and fourth time he checked, which, like, object permanence, but one can never be too sure.

His flight was long, as expected. He filled the time by reading a novel about the tedious, blundering culture of post-WWI upper-class London, recommended to him by Courfeyrac, who apparently had quite the aptitude for early twentieth-century satires. The book mostly just made him mildly angry and rather introspective about his own regrettably upscale life blesst upon him by his oftentimes shallow parents, and he simmered through the entire book in four and a half hours. He imagined Grantaire might like it, and made a mental note to lend him his copy once he returned. The rest of the flight was spent on the coursework he would be missing for the next week, fidgeting in his seat, and nibbling on airplane pretzels. He wished desperately, if a bit childishly, that someone would invent teleportation already—long flights bored him and left him antsy with the knowledge of all the truly wasted time they lent themselves to. The announcement from the pilot of the impeding landing was thusly welcomed.

New York City was cold and rainy mid-February. He took the subway to his hotel—Paris’ metro was definitely better, mind you—and checked in. The receptionist naturally slaughtered his last name, but it was practically routine whenever he travelled outside of France at this point, and he almost welcomed the familiarity in such an unfamiliar city.

Of course he had seen movies and television and books set in New York (Breakfast at Tiffany’s was Courfeyrac’s favorite movie, for some reason) but it was, unsurprisingly, different to be there in real life. The buildings surrounding him were narrow and utilitarian, and the people walked with their eyes downcast, stepping robotically over cracks in the pavement overflowing with rainwater. Tourists swarmed sporadically throughout the city sporting white t-shirts and black umbrellas, pointing at this building plastered with an array of winking rainbow flags or that person with the strange clothing on the subway platform. English settled into a thick cloudy haze around his head, excuse mes and sorrys mixing with the cold, wet air. Retrospectively, it was not entirely too different to Paris or London or any other big city he had visited but he felt...somehow, inexplicably...off.

Regardless.

He had four days in town before his audition, then he flew back home the next day. The days prior were filled with preparations, as well as a handful of sightseeing opportunities his parents had made him promise to do. He had a lesson with an instructor at Juilliard who he prayed was one of his judges, a rehearsal with the school’s accompanist to smooth things over, and he made sure he knew the way to the audition building beforehand about twenty times. He visited some museums, and saw the New York Philharmonic, and had his fair share of greasy American food. The people in the hotel rooms surrounding his were surely pissed, as he practiced every minute he wasn’t out, and only did make-up homework once his fingers inevitably went a little numb, which, admittedly, was generally past midnight.

-

Whoever was waking Grantaire up this early was about to die. It was a Friday night—well, Saturday morning, now—was that not a universal memo to let people sleep? He was about to ignore it, mute his phone, and sink back into his delightfully warm cocoon of blankets, but then he saw the caller ID and was immediately worried.

“Enjolras?” he answered, his voice gravelly and thick. He heard the boy take a shaky breath from the other line.

“Hi,” said Enjolras. “Did I wake you up?”

“No,” Grantaire lied easily, shifting quietly around his sheets. “I was already staying up painting, probably going to pull an all-nighter. When inspiration strikes, you have to follow it, you know?” He coughed. “What did you need?”

“My audition is tomorrow,” said Enjolras.

“Yeah, I think you’ve mentioned it once or twice,” muttered Grantaire. “You could play that music blind, deaf, and upside-down, Enjolras, you don’t need to be nervous or anything.”

“I’m not nervous,” Enjolras insisted. “I’m not, it’s just…” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “What if I don’t get in, and then I’ve wasted everyone’s time? I’ve spent so long practicing and preparing, and I’m skipping a week of school to come do this, and I’ve made you spend so many extra hours on it, and—“

“Okay, no, stop,” said Grantaire, scrubbing his hand over his face. “You are wrong, and I am going to tell you why.”

“Grantaire—” Enjolras started, but could not get far before Grantaire interrupted him again.

“I have told you time and time again that you will be fine, because you will be,” said Grantaire. “You’re exactly what they want. Even if you mess up, which you won’t, you are their model student. Foreign kid at the top of his class at a competitive high school who has performed all around Europe with wealthy parents who can pay off all his tuition with one signature on a check—”

“I don’t want to be accepted just because I can afford it,” Enjolras muttered crossly.

“You’re missing the point,” said Grantaire. “You’re an exceptional musician, the best I’ve ever met, and there is literally no feasible reality in which they don’t accept you. They will love you and you will smoke your audition and you will go to school and come back the most successful violinist in the world.”

“Be serious,” Enjolras insisted, upset.

“You think I’m joking,” said Grantaire incredulously. “If they decided suddenly that they can only accept a single violinist, I can say with absolute certainty that it would be you.”

Enjolras said nothing, and Grantaire mostly just felt tired and guilty that he couldn’t force the confidence back into his beloved student.

“Okay,” said Enjolras after a moment.

“You’ll be amazing,” said Grantaire honestly. “And don’t say you’ve wasted my time teaching you. If I didn’t want to spend time with you then I wouldn’t. You’re a good kid, and a better musician at that.”

“Alright,” said Enjolras, sounding slightly less miserable than before. His breath crackled and sparked over the phone. “Thank you. For everything, I mean. You’re…you’re really great, Grantaire.” His voice cracked on his name, and he hung up. Grantaire felt a vague sense of...something with the knowledge that Enjolras called him and not his friends or his sister or his parents. He fell asleep quickly, with his phone still in his hand.

-

The audition was a blur. Enjolras woke up at eight and took a shower, letting the hotel conditioner soak in longer than necessary, before getting out and putting on a warm cream sweater, slacks, and, on a whim, a long, green coat. He ate eggs that could very well have been wet cardboard for breakfast and called a taxi to the audition building, not willing to let his hair, pulled into a sleek curly tail held in place by a soft scrunchie he couldn’t stop wearing since Christmas, be sullied by the humidity of the underground. He arrived at his audition an hour before he was to play, and he went through scales and warm-ups and his repertoire in his allotted practice-room several times over. He felt astoundingly calm as a woman came to fetch him an hour later.

The judges were nice and chatted a little with him about his time in the city before requesting he start with the Paganini. They stopped him with a sharp bell sometime through, and he moved on to the next piece, then the next, then lastly the Bach. They thanked him for his time and wished him luck, and he left. He had made no memorable mistakes, and was breathless on the subway back to the hotel. He ordered room service for lunch and dinner, and worked on homework the rest of the day. There was not much else to do, besides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked my art, too. Is it called fanart if it's your own fic? I post most of my art on my instagram @zoraed so if you'd like to follow me there I would really appreciate the support!
> 
> Book Enjolras reads is Crome Yellow by Aldous Huxley. I recently finished it and i quite enjoyed it, it’s pretty funny and sad, too. The main character is hopelessly in love with an older girl, which I thought I might mention. I recommend it to anyone who wants a light read w lots of philosophy and sharp comedy. 
> 
> Please leave kudos and comments, they really really motivate me to continue and I need them now more than ever lol. I hope you’re liking this story so far, as it is quickly drawing to a close :)


	5. Triptych

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cosette+Enjolras Bonding Time, Also C-Squared Is There

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took entirely too long for many reasons, none of which I will bore you with here. That being said, the next chapter probably won’t happen until July, unless I can get my butt in gear, which is unlikely. I’m going to Washington DC next week, then Austin the week after, then Houston the week after that. Not a whole lot of time for writing, I’m afraid. I hope y’all like this chapter a lot, because it was really fun writing it. Reminds me of my own brother and sister. 
> 
> All that to say, I hope you enjoy!!

Spring passed similarly in a flush of pink. Enjolras blinked, and suddenly the trees were blooming and grass was green again: he read books on his patio and walked through the park to the sound of birds fluttering their plumes and night-crickets dancing and singing in the yellow moonlight. He and Combeferre and Courfeyrac studied for midterm exams, sipping sizzling sodas in the cool sun as they quizzed each other on vocabulary and formulas. He and Cosette performed playful little duets for their parents and guests before sneaking back upstairs, taking off their stuffy clothes and watching television while Enjolras “did homework” (usually it would only take him a few minutes to finish, but he drew it out longer on those nights that Cosette watched cheesy American romantic comedies, not willing to give her the satisfaction of knowing he was actually maybe just a little bit invested in some of them).

They had always been close. They had had a natural camaraderie from when they were children, always mistaken for twins despite Enjolras being a couple years older. She was always the angel—consistently matching Enjolras’ previous academic achievements, and though she wasn’t necessarily as passionate about or successful with music as Enjolras was, she had the added benefit of having a generally amiable, approachable, and sweet personality, which Enjolras definitely lacked. And while she was constantly praised for her gentle determination and kind nature, Enjolras knew her to be an absolute menace in getting what she wanted. 

It started in March. Enjolras was practicing, as per usual. His lessons had continued like normal, but after his audition, he almost didn’t know what to do with himself. He had nothing to work towards, exactly—he was stressed about having nothing to be stressed about. Thus, he stress-played, which wasn’t much different than his usual playing, if he’s being honest. His door was closed, as was the general signal to stay out. That was what doors are for, in case you had forgotten, which apparently Cosette had. 

“Dearest brother,” said she sweetly. She was in her pajamas already, which was a little odd as it had just passed six o’clock last time Enjolras had checked. “Do you mind?”

“Do I mind what?” he replied, a little irritated, putting his violin down. 

“It’s almost midnight,” said Cosette, rubbing her eye with her fist. 

“No it isn’t,” said Enjolras. 

Cosette sighed and pointed to the clock, and, indeed, the minute hand ticked silently closer towards the 12. 

“Ah,” said Enjolras. 

“Yeah,” said Cosette tiredly. She crossed her arms across her chest. “You’ve been back maybe two weeks and you’re already back to—sorry, can you please turn that down?” She nodded at the metronome clicking away on his desk. It didn’t exactly have a volume setting, so he just settled for turning it off. The air felt empty without it—he had grown so used to its loud rhythmic pulse that it faded into the background hours ago. “Where’d you even get that, anyway? I have an electronic one downstairs, if you needed one, you don’t even need to ask, you know.”

“It was a Christmas gift from Grantaire,” said Enjolras nonchalantly.

Cosette narrowed her eyes. “Music teacher Grantaire? Grantaire that kept you at his house for hours at a time? Grantaire that I baked doughnuts for for Hanukkah?”

“Yes,” said Enjolras, suddenly very exhausted. He loosened his bow. “That’s the one. How many Grantaires do you think I know?”

Cosette just grinned at him impishly. It reminded him of Courfeyrac, which was alarming. “I like your hair-tie,” she said slowly. 

“Why are you being weird,” he said exasperatedly. 

“What, a girl can’t comment on her brother’s dashing stylistic choices from time to time?” she said. “Besides, I didn’t know you liked hot pink. It’s a good look on you. Did Grantaire get it for you, too?” she asked, fake-saccharine, as she put her hands to her heart and fluttered her eyelashes. 

Enjolras blushed, and he pulled it out of his hair and fired it at her between his fingers. She ducked and it missed, whizzing over her head and thumping uselessly to the carpet behind her. “Get out of my room,” he said, irritated, though without malice.

“Goodnight, brother,” she said sweetly as she walked out. 

He just sighed. He packed up his violin and went to sleep. 

 

Further into April, Cosette had a recital with a few other students she had been preparing for for ages. Enjolras knew that while she was not wanting to pursue a career in music like he was, she was still driven and passionate about piano. Her favorite pieces were long and fluttery, waltzy and romantic and thick with feeling. Enjolras hated these pieces for himself on the violin, but strangely always enjoyed when Cosette played them. 

On the evening of the recital, Enjolras drove Cosette to the venue. She looked very beautiful in her swishing blue dress and sparkling earrings. Enjolras was wearing a blazer and dress shirt, but without a tie because he didn’t know how to tie one. He wished her good luck with a kiss on the forehead and went to sit in the audience. 

The performance began a few minutes later. The teacher gave a small speech at the beginning, praising all her students for being wonderful and talented and rich enough to pay her exorbitant recital fee. (That last part was not explicitly said, but Enjolras thought it was implied, and took it in stride.) He did not know any of the other students to perform, but he knew he wouldn’t care, because music was music. 

The first few pieces were short but looked quite challenging, and Enjolras clapped accordingly. He had never had an aptitude for piano, and he found each student very impressive, but in his heart, nothing compared to when his baby sister got up to perform. 

She looked older, somehow, under the bright stage lights, and taller in her heels and more mature in her makeup. She sat down at the piano bench, took a deep breath, and began to play. 

Enjolras had heard her practice the piece before at home, but nothing compared to seeing it performed on stage. Enjolras would know—you feel powerful up there; intense, and focused, and energetic. It showed on Cosette’s face, where a soft smile spread as sprawling melodies took control of her fingers, her brightly colored nails flitting across the keys like hummingbirds. Enjolras felt distantly proud of her, and made up for the absence of their parents by clapping twice as loud when she finished. 

Usually, he would manage to catch her eye as she bowed and she would smile just a little bit wider, but the twinkle of her eye was reserved for another tonight. Enjolras tracked her gaze farther back in the section left of his, and narrowed it to a rather thin young man with a crooked bowtie in one of the last few rows. He looked a little dazed at having Cosette’s attention as everyone in the audience applauded around them, and Enjolras couldn’t tell if he was naturally pale or if he actually was about to pass out, like he looked. Enjolras swiveled his gaze back to see Cosette leaving the stage, but he didn’t miss the not-so-subtle wink she sent the mystery boy behind him. Enjolras glanced that way a few minutes later and the poor guy’s face was still a burning scarlet, despite the dim auditorium lighting. 

The rest of the recital passed with no issue. Enjolras clapped politely after every piece, despite his dislike for more than a few interpretations of Bach. At the end, the teacher gave a few more parting words and pointed everyone to the refreshments in the lobby. Enjolras nursed a small glass of probably stupidly expensive champagne—he didn’t even like drinking very much as it mostly just gave him the hiccups—as he waited for Cosette. The people around him milled about, socializing and pretending they understood music and humble-bragging about their uber-talented children. Enjolras responded to a few texts and emails before he spotted his sister’s curly blonde head a few meters away. He slipped his phone into his pocket, ditched the half-empty wine glass, and headed over. 

Unsurprisingly, she was chatting excitedly with the bowtied boy from before. His face thankfully had returned to its natural color, and he seemed to regard Cosette like a puppy did to the person scratching behind its ears. Cosette caught Enjolras’ eye, and she waved her hand at him to invite him over. She grabbed him by the elbow to introduce him to the boy. 

“Marius, this is my older brother Julien,” said Cosette with a dazzling smile. 

“Just Enjolras is fine,” said Enjolras, shaking Marius’ hand and taking a little extra care to look very intimidating. 

It worked, judging from the boy’s sudden pallor. “Marius Pontmercy,” he replied faintly, and his grip was firm, if a little shaky. 

“Marius is in my photography class, brother,” said Cosette, taking the boy’s hand in hers. Marius whimpered, but Enjolras pretended not to notice. “He’s the one that did that beautiful shot of those butterflies in the garden I showed you, remember?”

“Totally,” said Enjolras. Cosette discreetly stamped on his foot. He winced. “I mean, I’m not one for photography, but it was quite...fascinating.”

Cosette looked a little more pleased with that answer, and the conversation continued. Marius seemed like a genuinely sweet and intelligent individual, if more than a bit aloof and naïve. Enjolras didn’t exactly understand what Cosette saw in him, and Cosette was out of most anybody’s league in his opinion, but that was probably just the overprotective older brother in him. He didn’t end up even talking very much, as the other two seemed completely infatuated with one another, and anytime he opened his mouth to interject with something perhaps less than polite, Cosette dug her nails into his elbow like she knew exactly what he was going to say. She probably did. He quickly resorted to stealthily playing Candy Crush to avoid interrupting their heart to heart. 

The sun eventually set and people began to trickle out of the lobby. They said their goodbyes—Cosette lingered even longer with Marius, but Enjolras eventually managed to drag her away—and returned to the car. 

“It’s already dark,” said Cosette from shotgun. 

“Yes,” replied Enjolras, putting his arm behind her seat as he looked over his shoulder to back out. “You were talking to Pontmercy for quite a while.”

“Isn’t he wonderful?” sighed Cosette. 

“Positively dreamy,” Enjolras reassured her sarcastically as he sped out of the parking lot. 

“Hey,” said Cosette, swatting him on the shoulder. “He’s smart, and funny, and nice, and handsome, and I like him a lot.” 

“I can tell,” teased Enjolras. “He blushed so hard when you winked at him that I’m pretty sure he fainted.”

“Don’t make fun of him!” said Cosette loudly, but she was smiling. 

“I’m not the one who spent half an hour talking about butterfly photography just to impress the guy I like,” retorted Enjolras good-naturedly. 

“Yeah? Well, I’m not the one who has a crush on my violin tutor!”

Enjolras’ eyes widened minutely, but he didn’t think Cosette noticed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said he through gritted teeth. 

Cosette seemed to know she struck a vein. “You’re in looooove with him,” she sing-songed. 

“I’m not!” said Enjolras seriously, though maybe a tiny grin was starting to grow on his face, if you squinted really hard. 

“You want to have his babies,” said Cosette solemnly. 

“Stop being weird,” he said. 

“You want to serenade him with the dulcet tones of the violin—“

“You need to stop watching so many romance movies—“

“—and you dream every night of his scruffy hair and sparkling orbs—“

“You are a pathological liar, you know that?”

“You love me,” she said cheekily. 

“Yeah, well,” he said with a shrug. She hit him affectionately in the shoulder. 

Most of the ride passed in comfortable silence, Enjolras paying attention to the road, Cosette looking at the stars starting to bloom in the sky out the window. 

“Brother,” she said, breaking the quiet. 

“Hm?” he hummed. His eyes reflected the gleam of the green stop lights flashing by the car, and he did not turn to look at her. 

“Are you going to do anything about Mr Grantaire?” she asked softly. 

“What do you mean?” he asked slowly. 

“Don’t pretend you don’t like him, because I know you do,” she said. “I just...I want you to be happy with him like I am with Marius.”

“It’s different,” said Enjolras with a frown. “I have to focus on school and violin, so that’s what I’m going to do.”

“But—“

“What would make me happy is you dropping it,” snapped Enjolras, harsher than he intended to. “It’s not any of your business.”

Cosette seemed to debate something fiercely in her head, before nodding. “Alright. But if you need anything, you know I’ve got your back, okay?”

“Okay,” said Enjolras. He pulled into their neighborhood, and then their street, and then their driveway. They went inside and quickly fell asleep. 

 

With May came the returned stress of his Juilliard audition. Acceptance (or rejection) letters were sent via email on the twenty-third, and it was now the twenty second. Enjolras was freaking out a little bit, but thought he was doing a pretty good job of hiding it. He was not. 

“Oh my god, can you please chill,” yelled Courfeyrac. “Some of us are trying to study here!”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac had come over for dinner and to do a group study sesh for the Economics test on Friday. Usually with Courfeyrac around, it’s more of a group gossip sesh, but he was outnumbered by Combeferre and Enjolras who both were try-hards. Courfeyrac knew they technically didn’t really need to study, as they all had pretty high grades all around, but they used studying as an excuse to get together and pretend they knew what they were doing. 

“I’m not even doing anything!” protested Enjolras. 

“You’re vibrating,” said Courfeyrac, exasperated. “You are like a human cell phone. Speaking of, you won’t put it down! You’ve refreshed your email sixteen times in the past five minutes. I counted.”

“It’s a bit excessive,” admitted Combeferre, who did not look up from his textbook. 

Courfeyrac stood up from his chair and walked behind Enjolras, putting his hands on his shoulders. “Relax, dude,” he said affectionately as he began to massage his friend’s shoulders. Unfortunately, his hands were small and kind of harsh so it hurt more than anything, but Enjolras wasn’t going to bring it up and sour his friend’s mood even further. 

“Sorry,” said Enjolras glumly. “I’m just afraid I won’t get in. It’s the only thing that’s mattered for so long, and I don’t want to have wasted anyone’s time.”

“You’ll get in,” said Courfeyrac loudly. 

“And even if you don’t get in—“ Combeferre started, but was interrupted by Courfeyrac:

“Don’t be a debby downer, bro—“

“—even if you don’t, you applied to and already got accepted into the finest musical universities in France,” finished Combeferre. “You’re already an accomplished musician, and you’ve proved that over and over again. Don’t let some email change that.”

“Wiseman Combeferre is right,” said Courfeyrac, “but you’ll still get in.”

“Are we talking about Juilliard again?” asked Cosette as she stepped in to the kitchen, filling up a glass of water from the fridge. 

“Yes,” said Combeferre. 

“He’s still pretending he didn’t get in,” chimed Courfeyrac. 

“He’s been doing that for months at this point,” said Cosette, coming to sit at the kitchen table with them. “There’s not much we can do for him; trust me, I’ve tried.”

“I’m right here,” said Enjolras crossly. 

“Did anyone hear that?” said Courfeyrac. Cosette and Combeferre shook their heads. Enjolras laid his head down on his arms and groaned. Some friends they were. 

“You know, if you’re really that stressed about it,” started Combeferre, closing his textbook, “you should let one of us open the email or something before you see it tomorrow, and then we tell you whether or not you got in. That way, it’s out of your control, and you don’t freak out about it anymore.”

“I’m not freaking out about anything,” protested Enjolras, but it was a little muffled through his arms. 

“You should let Grantaire open it for you,” said Cosette suggestively. 

“Grantaire?” said Courfeyrac. “Like, your violin teacher?”

“Yes, my violin teacher,” said Enjolras, glaring at his sister. 

Courfeyrac squinted, feeling the thick tension between the two. “Am I missing something here? I feel like I’m missing something.”

A Cheshire grin spread across Cosette’s face. “Enjolras has a crush,” she said. 

“What!” shrieked Courfeyrac, his eyes going wide. 

Enjolras moaned increasingly loudly into his arms. 

“Holy shit,” said Courfeyrac. It looked like it was his birthday and Christmas and he just won the lottery all at once. “This is the best day of my life, what the fuck.”

“I don’t understand why you’re freaking out about this,” said Enjolras. 

“You have said that every single crush I ever had on a girl was pointless and dumb,” said Courfeyrac. “Oh, how the tables have turned!” He laughed a little maniacally. Cosette and Combeferre watched with mild amusement. 

“Make him stop,” said Enjolras to Combeferre. 

“You kids grow up so fast,” said Combeferre, deadpan, miming a little tear trailing down his cheek. 

Enjolras accepted now that he had no friends. 

“Oh my god,” said Courfeyrac. “I just had the literal best idea.”

Enjolras attempted to tune out his voice because his “good ideas” usually ended up with at least one of them bruised, broken, or at the wrong end of some disciplinary action. It did not work. 

“You should ask Grantaire to open it and then once he tells you that you got in you can confess your undying love for him and he will be so impressed that you got into Juilliard that he will kiss you right then and there and then you will live happily ever after and have a bunch of little violin babies,” said Courfeyrac in one breath. “I’m a genius.” He and Cosette high-fived over Enjolras’ head. 

“Or,” said Combeferre, “you could invite him out to a celebratory dinner for you getting in, and he can’t say no because that would be really rude.”

“I thought you were supposed to be on my side,” said Enjolras. Combeferre just shrugged. 

“And besides,” continued Enjolras, sitting back up and looking a little miserable, “what if I don’t get in?”

Cosette, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre all sighed in unison. “You’ll get in!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shameless self promo: follow me on tumblr @ cannary or instagram @zoraed !! I post my art there and I have been drawing a lot of Enjoltaire lately. As always, kudos and comments make the world go round. Anything you have to say to me, I welcome with open arms!!


	6. Bach Sonata No 2, III. Andante [Interlude]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title is of the piece I listened to on repeat while writing this. I especially like Hilary Hahn’s version, which while a bit slow, is incredibly beautiful in its own right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi sorry I wrote this in an afternoon and didn’t feel like waiting to set it out into the world but. Short chapter, nothing really happens, questionable writing at best but I kind of needed it to happen for me to be happy with the whole arc. 
> 
> Anyways. 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy!

Enjolras was in his bed. Combeferre and Courfeyrac left a few hours ago, and he and Cosette had cleaned up the dinner table before bidding each other goodnight and going off in their separate ways. Enjolras was tired, but he couldn’t fall asleep, for his mind was whirring very quickly.

He stared up at the ceiling. His room was dark but his eyes had long since adjusted to it. He shifted minutely, trying to get comfortable, but he couldn’t. He would probably not fall asleep for a while for many reasons, including but not limited to the facts that he was nervous and afraid and tired and stressed and honestly felt a bit like shit. 

Obviously there was nothing he could do about it at this point. The decision to let him into Juilliard had been finalized weeks, if not months, ago, surely, and he could barely even remember his audition, how it had went, or how he had felt about it. All he could recognize was the curling snake at the pit of his stomach, preventing him from falling into a dreamless sleep. 

He knew it was stupid to worry about it. His friends and sister were clearly right, and he knew logically that he would probably get in, but, yet again, what if he didn’t? It was a stupid question. There certainly was a saying, somewhere, about “what if”s, but Enjolras couldn’t care to recall its entirety. It was stupid. Worrying was stupid, beating himself up about it was stupid, not getting sleep over something he had no control over was stupid. He felt really, really stupid. 

He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he didn’t get in. He vaguely recalled a phone conversation in a hotel bedroom in a rainy, unfamiliar city with someone many miles away. He would have wasted everyone’s time, he remembered saying. It never stopped being true. He couldn’t imagine disappointing so many people—himself, his friends, his parents—his entire fucking career was on the line. It would be absolutely humiliating if he didn’t get in. He wouldn’t be able to look anyone in the eye for months fear of pity or sympathy—god, he wouldn’t be able to even talk to Grantaire ever again. Grantaire, who had prepared him for months, whom he had argued with about everything under the sun, who had made him dinner and taken him busking and had given him a Christmas gift even though Enjolras was Jewish. 

Enjolras turned on his side. His alarm clock silently flashed the red time, and he pulled the blankets up to his chin, even though it was hot. His window was open, and he listened to the chirping music of the cicadas before circling back to Grantaire. 

Grantaire made Enjolras feel things. Emotions, his brain helpfully provided. Enjolras had had crushes before; he had, like any other teenaged human being, looked at many a person passing by on the street or standing on the train platform or sitting in front of him in one his classes and thought about what could have happened had he approached them or said something. But Grantaire felt...different. Grantaire didn’t suck up to him just because Enjolras’ parents were rich, and he didn’t unnecessarily lather Enjolras with praise just because he was his student. He argued with almost everything that came out of Enjolras’ mouth but still supported him in every endeavor Enjolras had ever pursued. He forced Enjolras to be a person instead of a robot, and Enjolras was completely in love with him because of it.

He closed his eyes. “I’m in love with Grantaire,” he whispered into the empty room. It did not feel as monumental as he had anticipated, perhaps because he had known it for a very long time already.

At first, he had hated that Cosette had noticed or said anything. He remembered being pissed at her for bringing it up in the car a while ago. He hated that she made him think about it, and had brought it up to Courfeyrac and Combeferre, which made him even more guilty. He hadn’t wanted to think about it because, in his mind, he had far more important things to worry about than Grantaire. Some crush shouldn’t prohibit him from focusing on his career as a musician or his higher education or his future, and liking someone—loving someone—had never been a part of his future before. But, if nothing else, Enjolras was determined. He was a man of action, and was never one to sit by and let an opportunity pass him up. He did not plan on ever having regrets, and would not start now.

So he made a plan. His thoughts chased him in circles until they lulled him to sleep a few hours later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are welcomed with warm and open arms.


	7. Capriccioso

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The results are in!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I am very nervous about uploading this chapter bc I wrote it all in one sitting and, as usual, nobody has seen it but myself. However, as always, I hope you enjoy!

There was a quick and precise knock on the front door. It was a Thursday at seven am and, surprisingly, Grantaire was awake to answer it, though he couldn’t say he was very happy about that fact. He had an appointment with a possible commissions client at ten for brunch—rich people, amiright—and apparently that warranted waking up at seven. Well, it’s best to be safe than sorry, he mused as he opened the door. It was Enjolras, which, who’s surprised at this point. 

“It’s seven in the goddamn morning,” he said grumpily, not that he was actually angry--he was never actually angry at Enjolras—but he had a reputation to uphold. 

“Congratulations on learning to tell time,” said Enjolras, already pushing past Grantaire into the piano room. He held a tablet in one hand and his phone in the other, setting the latter down and pushing the former into Grantaire’s empty hands. 

“Why are you here,” said Grantaire as he took the tablet, shutting the front door behind him as he followed his student. Enjolras stood nervously in front of the piano bench, his fine brow scrunched on his forehead, his hands nervously wrung behind him. 

“The Juilliard results come out today,” he said in lieu of an explanation. However, Grantaire knew this, but he wasn’t expecting Enjolras to literally just burst into his house to tell him. A call would have sufficed, probably.

“Oh-kaaay,” said Grantaire. “Did you not get in or something? You don’t have to be nervous, you can just tell me, I won’t be mad or anything if you didn’t get in, even though I know you did—“

“I haven’t looked at the results yet,” snapped Enjolras, then looking mildly guilty for doing so. “I know the email came but I haven’t opened it yet. I want you to tell me.”

“Oh,” said Grantaire, oddly touched. “Okay, let’s do this, then.”

He sat down in front of Enjolras on the piano bench, wielding the tablet and maneuvering to the Mail app. Right at the top of the inbox was, indeed, a message from Juilliard Admissions. He tapped on it and waited for it to load. Enjolras paced back and forth across the room, gnawing nervously on the inside of his cheek. Grantaire reached out and grabbed one of his hands, forcing him to stay still. 

“Chill,” he said gently. “Come sit by me and I’ll read it to you, okay? Quit stressing.”

Enjolras nodded and sat, his hand still clutching Grantaire’s. His palms were sweaty and his finger’s dug into Grantaire’s skin like a vice, but he ignored it in favor of opening the email. “No peeking,” he said cheekily.

Enjolras rolled his eyes, then closed them. “Happy? Now just read it.”

Grantaire took a breath, and did. 

“Dear Julien,

“Thank you for applying to the String Department in the Music Division at The Juilliard School. We want to let you know what a great pleasure it has been for us to get to know you as well as your musical abilities. We greatly acknowledge and appreciate the amount of time and effort that have gone into your audition and application process.” Enjolras’ hand gripped harder and harder as Grantaire read, and his short nails honestly might have started to draw blood. His eyes were shut forcefully, and his brow was drawn low over his forehead. Grantaire could only imagine the thoughts flying through his head. 

“As an international student, we recognize the great deal of immense patience you have shown in regards to your admissions status. Once again, we would like to thank you for your incredible musicianship, professionalism, dedication, and talent throughout your application process, and so”—Enjolras took a deep breath in—“it is our tremendous pleasure to inform you that you have been accepted to the Bachelor of Fine Arts Program at The Juilliard School for the 20XX-20XX school year.” 

And, a deep breath out. 

The grip on Grantaire’s hand relaxed, but did not release, and Enjolras opened his eyes. Grantaire watched as an almost manic grin broke out across his student’s face, uninhibited and free, and he felt his own face morph into a smile as well. “Well,” he said, setting the tablet aside. “Congratulations.”

Enjolras enveloped him in a huge hug, throwing his arms around Grantaire’s neck tightly. Grantaire returned it, a bit startled, and felt Enjolras grin against his collar. They stood there for a while, long enough that Grantaire started to shift his weight from foot to foot and they embraced, swaying, for what felt like forever. Eventually, Grantaire had to release the boy, stepping back to look him in the eyes. “Seriously, congratulations,” he said. “You deserve every bit of it, there was never a doubt in my mind that you’d make it. I don’t believe in much, but trust me when I say that I believe in you.”

Enjolras looked back earnestly. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he replied like a cliche but Grantaire didn’t find it in him to care.

“I’m not the one who completely aced their audition and got into the best music school in the world,” pointed out Grantaire, pulling Enjolras back in for one more quick hug. This time, it was Enjolras who pulled away, looking a little nervous, and Jesus, what is that about? The kid just got accepted to his dream school, and he’s still worried about something?

“I was wondering,” started Enjolras, “if you maybe wanted to go out to breakfast or something to celebrate? I can pay, and I don’t have anything important at school today, so it doesn’t matter if I’m late.”

“You know, I probably shouldn’t encourage skipping but Lord knows you could give yourself a break after working non-stop for however long,” said Grantaire with a smile. “I’d love to. It’s a date.”

Enjolras’ grin grew just that much bigger and his cheeks flushed and goddammit Grantaire, you can’t be an enabler, now, of all times! What happened to ignoring the problem until it flew to New York City and inevitably forgot about you four years later? “Um,” stuttered Grantaire, “that is to say, I, um—”

“What?” said Enjolras, his smile fading a bit. Grantaire could feel the warmth and light of the room dim.

“You and I can go out for breakfast without it being a date,” said Grantaire awkwardly, inwardly cringing at himself. Way to go, R. He didn’t know it was possible to ruin a conversation in such little time.

“Um, okay,” said Enjolras, evidently confused. “You don’t need to be weird about it, you can just say no if you don’t want to.”

“It’s not that,” sighed Grantaire, and honestly, why couldn’t they reverse time thirty seconds to where they were celebrating Enjolras’ successes, instead of now, where Grantaire evidently had ruined everything. “It’s—listen, Enjolras,” he blurted, before he could stop himself, “I know you have feelings for me, and I just don’t want you to—“

“What?” said Enjolras, stunned. “You knew?”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” tried Grantaire, but was quickly interrupted.

“How long have you known?” demanded Enjolras. All remnants of the previous celebration in his voice were gone. He sounded upset, and—now you’ve done it, R—hurt.

“A few months, maybe,” said Grantaire lightly. “Listen, it’s not a big deal, I didn’t mean to—”

“Mean to what, Grantaire? It’s not like you let me humiliate myself in front of you and your friends for months without you ever saying anything,” snapped Enjolras.

“What was I supposed to say?” retorted Grantaire. “‘Just wanted to let you know that I am aware you have some stupid crush on me and have been pining for the past six months!’”

“I don’t know,” said Enjolras, “but I guess I thought I was more to you than just some kid you could laugh at and mess with because they’ve had a ‘stupid crush’ on you for ages—”

“Why is this my fault?” asked Grantaire, frustrated. “I don’t know what you want me to have done. I wasn’t even going to say anything, and I shouldn’t have said anything now, I guess.”

“You’re acting like a coward,” sneered Enjolras, and god, this was the first time Grantaire had seen him truly angry and upset. His hands clenched and unclenched by his side—hands that had so recently been held tenderly in Grantaire’s—and his eyes, once filled with mirth but moments ago, were violently blue in steely cruelty.

“And you’re acting like a child,” retorted Grantaire. “Just because you get your feelings squished or you’re embarrassed or whatever doesn’t make it okay to throw a temper tantrum at whoever’s around you. I told you I wasn’t going to say anything, and in just a few months you’re leaving and you’ll gladly forget I ever existed. It’s not a big deal, I don’t understand why you’re so angry—”

“I fucking hate you sometimes,” said Enjolras coldly, and something in Grantaire cracked. “You’re a real fucking idiot.”

“I just didn’t want you to get your hopes up or anything,” muttered Grantaire.

“Trust me, the rejection was pretty clear,” replied Enjolras thickly. He brushed past Grantaire to snatch up his tablet and left Grantaire to stare at the wall, thoroughly confused as to what just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always see fics where they confess their crushes for each other or whatever and it turns out all of Les Amis knew the whole time or whatever, and I just gotta say that that sounds like the most humiliating thing ever, so I hope it makes sense why Enjolras is pissed here, because I know I sure would be. 
> 
> Kudos and comments seriously make my day, and I would really appreciate it if you left some.


	8. Acciaccato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Musichetta cares, like a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmm sorry this took so long, I won’t bore you with the reasons why but hopefully the next chapter should arrive sooner than the many months it took to write this one. Oops! Enjoy regardless!

That was, admittedly, not how Grantaire had planned to start his morning. 

He watched Enjolras storm out the door before running his hands over his face and sighing very loudly, feeling suddenly drained of all his energy. His current options were to either 1) chase after Enjolras and try to fix what he had messed up, which, no thank you—maybe Enjolras was right, maybe Grantaire was a coward after all—or 2) go eat breakfast and go on with his day, pretending the whole ordeal had never happened and avoiding the problem at all costs. Brownie points if you can guess which option he would pick. 

He made his way to the kitchen, blearily eyeballing the wine cabinet, but it was seven in the morning and even he wasn’t that much of a lowlife to start day drinking before the day had even really started. He shuffled instead to the sink to grab himself a glass of water, spacing out until it started to spill over the top of his glass. “Shit,” he mumbled, shaking his hand dry before turning around to grab a protein bar or something from the pantry. In his way, however, was Musichetta, whom he was definitely not expecting at all and thus made him squeal in a very manly way before collecting himself. 

“Good morning,” he said with a weak smile. She did not smile back. 

“Are you guys done screaming yet,” she said, not really a question. 

Grantaire frowned. “I wasn’t aware you had heard.”

“I’m pretty sure the whole neighborhood heard, idiot,” she said, leaning on the island. 

Grantaire scratched the back of his neck and took a sip of his water. “Er, sorry?”

Musichetta did not look very pleased at that answer. “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to, you know.”

Grantaire sighed a heaving sigh. “Okay, I could have handled that better without it elevating to yelling and slamming doors, I will admit that, but—“

“But what, R,” she said angrily. This was kind of a surreal experience for Grantaire—Musichetta was almost always cheerful and laughing, and seeing her angry like this, especially at him, was a bit of a culture shock. “You can’t just have a shouting match with Enjolras and let him storm out and not expect any of us to talk to you about it.”

“I can, actually,” replied Grantaire, irritated, “because it’s really not any of your business.”

Faintly, Grantaire heard the front door squeak open, probably Bossuet wanting to avoid the mess of a conversation happening in the kitchen and just heading straight to work. 

Musichetta’s eyebrow twitched. “It kind of is, actually. I may not know him as well, but it’s pretty obvious you just broke the kid’s heart, and—“

“I didn’t break his heart,” interrupted Grantaire, who felt it important to make the distinction. “I brought him back to reality, that’s all.”

“Do you see the way he looks at you?” said Musichetta incredulously. “He thinks you hung the stars, R.”

“It was a short term crush on his music teacher and it will go away soon enough,” said Grantaire forcefully. The ‘I hope’ went unsaid. 

Musichetta sighed, exasperated, as if she was arguing with a particularly stubborn toddler. “But you like him, too, don’t you?” 

“Of course I like him, Musichetta,” said Grantaire. “He’s the most amazing guy I think I’ve ever met.”

Musichetta looked like she was about to tear her braids out. “Then why did you pretend you didn’t? Come on, Grantaire, you know you’re being irrational. He likes you, you like him, why can’t you let yourself be happy for once?”

Grantaire set his glass down delicately. “I don’t want to be that guy,” he said. “I don’t want to be dragging him down while he should be out meeting people his own age. I’m how many years older than him—five? six? He’s going to fucking Juilliard in a few months, he should be enjoying his college life away from home, not being held back by some stupid, adolescent crush he had on his old violin tutor back home. I can’t do that to him. He deserves to be happy and successful, and he can’t be that with me. I’d just bring him down.” His throat felt thick and filled with honey. “Of course I like him, but I’d never be enough for him. I can’t be the guy that holds him back like that.”

There was a voice from his left. 

-

Enjolras resolutely climbed into his car and very carefully did not slam the door, nor did he blast his music or punch something, all of which he felt he was vaguely entitled to do, considering the situation. Instead, he kind of just sat there with his face in his hands. 

Retrospectively, he probably should not have called Grantaire a coward, or stupid, even if those things were true, which Enjolras didn’t exactly believe. His anger had really gotten the best of him, though he was almost too proud to admit it.

He ran his hands over his face and sighed very loudly. He had really messed up, and both his options were pretty unsavory. Either apologize to Grantaire for all the nasty things he said, which he would rather not do (“Grantaire was the one who humiliated you in the first place,” his brain told him, “so why should you be the one apologizing?”), or go on with his life, knowing that the first person he had ever really loved thought him an immature child who couldn’t keep his feelings in check. Neither were great. 

He reveled in his self-pity for a little while more before starting the car, digging in his pocket to find his phone and text Courfeyrac or Combeferre. All that came up was an empty gum wrapper and a bit of lint. A quick glance around his seat confirmed the fact that his phone was not there. Groaning, he realized he had left it in the music room, where he had set it down before giving his tablet to Grantaire. He had half a mind to leave it there and do something about it later, but he also knew that would lead to a fair amount of problems in its own right later, so he just mentally steeled himself before getting out of his car. 

The walk up the path to the door was brief. Thankfully, he thought to check the door before knocking or ringing the doorbell, and sure enough, it was unlocked. He hoped to just quietly slip in, grab his phone, and leave without anyone noticing; it had been long enough that Grantaire had probably migrated from the music room into his own room or the kitchen, and it was early enough that his housemates would probably be still asleep. 

He opened the door with a squeak and slipped through, tiptoeing his way into the music room. Thankfully, Grantaire had in fact moved from the music room into the kitchen, if the voices coming from it were a good indication. Enjolras quickly grabbed his phone and slipped it into his pocket, planning to just slip out again, but the voices—quickly identified as Grantaire and Musichetta—in the kitchen grew louder, and he couldn’t exactly ignore them. 

“It kind of is, actually,” Musichetta was saying. “I may not know him as well, but it’s pretty obvious you just broke the kid’s heart, and—“

Great, thought Enjolras. They’re talking about me again. He could only imagine, if his crush was really as obvious as Grantaire had said, how many times they had gossiped about him like this. His face grew hot and angry, and he clenched his fist, not really wanting to hear Grantaire’s response. 

“I didn’t break his heart, I brought him back to reality, that’s all,” replied Grantaire. The prideful part of Enjolras wishes this to be true, that he wasn’t actually as affected by Grantaire’s rejection, but the way his eyes still burned and his throat still clenched proved the opposite. 

“Do you see the way he looks at you?” said Musichetta. “He thinks you hung the stars, R.” Enjolras cringed. Maybe he had been that obvious. 

“It was a short term crush on his music teacher and it will go away soon enough,” said Grantaire. Enjolras bit his lip and looked down at the wood floor. He didn’t really want to hear more about how Grantaire thought him shallow, how quickly he wanted Enjolras’ feelings to go away so he wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore; downtrodden, Enjolras walked quietly to the front door, prepared to leave and go home and probably not come back. 

“But you like him, too, don’t you?” 

Enjolras paused, his hand on the door handle. 

“Of course I like him, Musichetta,” said Grantaire. “He’s the most amazing guy I think I’ve ever met.”

Huh. 

“Then why did you pretend you didn’t? Come on, Grantaire, you know you’re being irrational. He likes you, you like him, why can’t you let yourself be happy for once?”

Enjolras had the distinct feeling he was not supposed to be hearing this, but he couldn’t move. 

“I don’t want to be that guy,” said Grantaire, finally. “I don’t want to be dragging him down while he should be out meeting people his own age. I’m how many years older than him—five? six? He’s going to fucking Juilliard in a few months, he should be enjoying his college life away from home, not being held back by some stupid, adolescent crush he had on his old violin tutor back home. I can’t do that to him. He deserves to be happy and successful, and he can’t be that with me. I’d just bring him down. Of course I like him, but I’d never be enough for him. I can’t be the guy that holds him back like that.”

“You wouldn’t,” said Enjolras, before he could register what he was saying. “You don’t hold me back—you don’t…” 

He heard a heaving sigh from the kitchen. 

“Goddammit,” said Grantaire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are always appreciated, and always make me more motivated to write. Thanks

**Author's Note:**

> So uh yeah hope you enjoyed that first chapter!! I’m thinking it will be about 8 chapters total, and I’m planning to write a bit as I’m currently on break. Can’t promise anything, though. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are like food and water please dont let me starve


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